Collected Poems

by Chuck Guilford

What to Say

As we drove that road cut into the Payette canyon, tracing diagonal stresses in granite walls stretched above and below, the wandering line of river hidden under pine, I stayed perfectly silent.

A late June morning, the sky clear without much wind or dust. Sunday, no logging trucks running. I had nothing to say about lichen covered walls we threaded through.

Oh, now and then a ridge above us still held snow, but not enough to mention.

Yet I mention these things to you now as a way of explaining why sometimes I turn in sadness, without explanation, try to crush you in my hands, but it does no good.

If I knew the word, and I don’t, though I do know many, I would surely speak it.

And if, when I watched the little flakes of mica catching light in the river shallows or watched you combing your hair at the dressing table, if I knew what to say at a moment like that, believe me, I would.